Your blank canvas lives upon her whitewashed wall
and I watch as she strives to run a thumb
over the fraying initials

carved into its plaster;
Today, her skeletal finger felt your
name, and

her heart, your heart.

Those yellow tresses you placed upon her leafless
head hold chestnut strands for all the
layers of nullity she

tears off of your bloodless shrine,

and for every time she unearths another
wispy image from your blank
canvas--like the smoke that besieged your eyes

her heart, your heart.

She sees no blank canvas. She repaints them and
for you, she draws what looks like
a digested worm in the bluejay's gizzard. But she sees no blank canvas.

She sees no blank canvas. She retouches them and
for her, she draws what is a candy boat
on the seas of Galilee. But she sees no blank canvas.

And with her feline nails, she tears at the bluejay or
the boat or whatever it's not;
every droplet of her crimson varnish come together

in the shape of a European man;

her heart, your heart.

The man hurdles from the canvas
out of the bluejay's abdomen and over the boat on Galilee
and she levels her head

to meet his hand-sketched eyes.
He softly tells her to pull her head from his shoulder,
bedewing with her scalding tears.

And then she, and the outlined man,
travel through the air. She have never seen
another blank canvas.